


inside my heart is breaking (my makeup may be flaking)

by orphan_account



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, chapter two will also be sad but not graphic., here u go becki. this is why u always specify what u want from me, if u want a good ending DO NOT READ, love you becki, no tea no shade its rent live cast, oohoo this is gonna be SAD, the warning should tell u whats gonna happpen, this is a BAD FIC!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-05 17:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: he hated love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bareunloveliness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bareunloveliness/gifts).



On the night of July Seventh, 1992, all Roger could think about was getting away. Just getting away from the damn apartment, from Collins, from Maureen, from Joanne, even from Mark. No, especially from Mark. He didn't know what to say to him, didn't know how to look at him after last night.

"I love you, Rog," Mark had said, half-asleep and softly, Roger's hand stroking his hair gently, "No matter what, I love you."

They'd never said it before. Sure, they'd implied it- but they never said it. They told each other they'd cared about each other, they'd said that a lot. Said they needed each other. But that, they never said that. And Roger had thought it was their unspoken agreement to not say it.

He stuffed his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket, moving faster. He winced slightly at the sound of his shoes against the hard ground, but shook his head in favor of stressing out about the bigger problem. Everyone he loved- every time he loved- it ended badly. He'd loved April. He'd really loved April, more than he had ever loved anyone before. April had helped him so much, from their agreement of stopping drug use one day, to the life they had planned, to the fact that April taught him how to smile. Yes, he'd loved April. He'd loved April and her red hair, and her eyeliner, and her sly smile that always had a hint of true happiness within.

Roger blamed himself for April's death though. He blamed himself for the fact that they got _it._ He should've gotten tested earlier, he should've been more careful, he should have heeded the warnings, he should have never gone backstage that one night, should have never let the other musician, the one he never even learned the name of, slide his hand up his leg. Should have never let himself go any further than hands with that drummer boy. It was stupid for him to pin the blame on that. It could have come from April, or it could have come from someone long before the drummer boy. He knew it was inevitable though, and that was what hurt the most.

When he saw the note that day, tacked onto the bathroom door, he never should have gone in. "We have AIDS." It was a bad sign. A terrible sign. 

But nonetheless, he entered in the bathroom, and watched the blood from April's wrists trickle down the drain. He watched in horror, the stillness of April's chest, the way she was sprawled in a sick resemblance of a pose. Instead of crowning her head, April's hair was fanned out and tangled. When he dropped down, heaving out sobs until he couldn't breathe, when Mark rushed in behind him, a hand falling on his back in some form of attempted comfort, all he could register was that he would be next to go. That day broke him.

(What he didn't know, however, was that it wasn't his fault. They shared April's needles when they got high together, and that was the nail on the coffin.)

He shoved open the door, walking into the heat of a New York summer. The stars, only a few, peeked out at him. Roger wasn't sure where he was going.

As he walked down the street, his head down, he thought about how much he had loved Mimi too. Roger was broken for months, unable to leave the house without panicking, unable to sleep without nightmares, hell, sometimes unable to look even Mark in the eye. And then there was Mimi, with the sway of her hips and the curls of her hair. Mimi was different. Her smile didn't have the softness of April's, but it had the same hurt behind her eyes. Loving Mimi was harder than loving April. Loving Mimi was too much like looking in a mirror. Just a year before meeting her, that was him. He was just like that, performing in the neon lights, getting high every other night because it was the only thing he could do, moving his hips in time to the blasting music- that was him.

There were softer parts of loving Mimi, of course. Mornings where they'd make waffles together, always with extra chocolate chips. Days where they'd be just like kids, jumping on Mimi's bed and singing at the top of their lungs to some song they didn't even know all the words to.

Roger was at Mimi's side both times she died. The first time, where she'd suddenly come back to life somehow, and the second time, where there was nothing more to be done. "Tuberculosis," her doctor had said, her kind face showing that she knew how this had to feel. Roger had screamed at the doctor- _"there's a fucking cure for tuberculosis, you shit-"_ , before the woman explained that with Mimi's already weakened immune system, and with the fact she shouldn't even be alive at all, and she was so sorry.

So Roger screamed, and Roger cried, and Roger fought like hell. He thrashed around and kicked when they tried to get him to leave, kicked a doctor so much and so hard he nearly got charged with assault, but what was important was that he was there. He was there when Mimi died, was there holding her hand, singing her favorite song, and telling her stories of his childhood.

After that, Roger swore he would never love anyone again. He didn't want anyone else hurt, or worse, dead. But god, his feelings for Mark hit him like a truck.

He kept walking down the sidewalk, not caring where he ended up, as long as he got away. April and Mimi always hated that he ran away. Mark understood that he had to, that that was the only way left that he could clear his head alone. Mark understood. Mark understood everything, even if he pretended not to. Loving- no, liking -Mark was weird. He'd been attracted to boys before, but he'd never felt for them what he felt for Mark. When they kissed, when they held hands, even just when they were in the same room, Roger felt a surge of love, and of protectiveness. When Mark shoved a camera in his face, he just laughed and swatted it away now, and threatened Mark with his guitar. But he was always bluffing- hurting Mark would be the worst thing he could ever do.

And last night, when Mark let his lips rest on Roger's collarbone, and Rogers hand was moving slower in his hair than it was at first, both of them sweating to all hell from the heat and the sex, Mark had said it. And like the idiot he was, he said it back.

Stupid _fucking_ Roger, he thought, always ruining everything you touch. He ducked into an alley to take a breather, stripping his leather jacket off of him and throwing it against the wall in anger. There was no good ending to this, there couldn't be. Because everyone Roger loved ended up hurt. Because Roger was dying, even though he hid it in favor in love. Because he knew Mark was hurting too, behind that awkward smile and that stupidly adorable face. Because Roger had made his mind up a long time ago. He didn't even realize he was crying until he fell to the ground, fist balled in his too-thin shirt. He kicked his legs out, attacking some invisible enemy as if it could make his feelings go away. 

Roger wasn't sure how long he stayed there, fighting the urge to scream, to throw a tantrum, to punch the wall, to get in a fight, to just do something to make the fear and sadness in his heart go away. On shaky legs, with a hand bracing the wall, he stood. And once he regained his balance, he threw his leather jacket back over his shoulders, and started the trek back to the apartment; back to the man he loved, back to the friends he adored. Back to things he had to live for. His vision was blurry with tears, and all he could hear was ringing. But he didn't go home. He walked the opposite direction, to the club he used to play at. It was ten, it would be open.

He didn't register the conversation he was having with the guy at the club hours later- the same drummer boy from four years back, he'd realize, -all he registered was the alcohol. "I'm drunk," he mumbled when the conversation turned, when he felt the hand that was definitely not from the right person on his thigh. And he was, he was so drunk. But he thought, in the back of his mind, Mark must be worried sick. So Roger stood, mumbling incoherently about Mark, about how he had to get home _right now._ The drummer boy offered to walk him home, and like the idiot he had been the night before, he accepted. He was only vaguely aware of the hands where they shouldn't be later, too fazed by the alcohol and whatever was in it to fight back. He barely even noticed that he was definitely not going home. Stupid Roger, he told himself when it was over, just letting yourself sit here and die. His fingers grazed over the cuts, over the shards of glass, up to his definitely broken nose, and through his hair. As he sat, he thought about Mimi, sitting just like this as she died. As he bled, he thought about April, with her blood swirling down the drain. And when the drummer boy delivered the gunshot, all he could think about was that this definitely hurt Mark.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a month since Roger was found with a bullet in his head in an alleyway downtown. It had been two weeks since Roger's mother invited Mark to come over, saying she had some things to show him. And it had been two hours since he arrived in the small Kentucky town, trying to smooth down his sweater. He felt uncomfortable here- in rural Kentucky. There was a gun shop right next to a shooting range, and that terrified him. As he stood on the stoop of the Davis household, he wiped his hand on his sweater, trying to stop himself from running. Slowly, he raised his arm to the door, and knocked.

As the door opened, he froze. Did his parents know- did his parents know that Mark and Roger had been together? Would they be okay with it? Roger hardly even talked about his family, so he barely knew what they were like.

"You must be Mark!" A kind faced woman- Roger's mother, likely -scooped him into an immediate hug. Her curly hair was pulled back loosely, and she pressed a kiss to Mark's cheek. And Mark let himself relax, hugging the woman back.

"Yes ma'am, you're Roger's mother, right?" She nodded, squeezing him tight like he was a lifeline.

"Please, just call me Abigail. Come in, come in," she- Abigail -let go of him, leading him past the door. And for some reason, Mark felt right at home here. Pictures adorned the walls, of birthdays and holidays and times long gone. Of what Mark assumed was a Halloween- with a little Roger dressed up in a leather jacket, his blonde hair slicked back and his face in a goofy smile. He didn't look older than maybe seven, at the most, in that picture. "He loved Grease," Abigail said from behind him, the sudden hand on his shoulder making Mark jump up, "We saw the musical when he was six, and for the following three years, he was a T-Bird for Halloween. When the movie came out, he begged me to take him every night, the little mess."

"Did he like theatre?"

"God, no. Just Grease." Abigail laughed, shaking her head, "He had the cast album on vinyl, played it every night. It was either Grease or Buddy Holly. He loved Buddy Holly. He'd play his records so much that you eventually couldn't listen to them anymore." From somewhere behind him, a door closed. Mark turned to Abigail, taking in the lines of her face, the creases of her eyes, and the tired smile. Mark smiled back, and looked back to the photos. "Did he never show you photos?"

"Roger? Be open? Never." It was a joke. And Mark laughed, but Abigail's face just scrunched in worry. "Wait, no, I- shit. I'm sorry ma'am-" he waved his hands in some physical form of apology, "I didn't mean- well, he showed me a couple photos but, nothing much he- I'm sorry ma'am." Abigail touched his arm with a shake of her head.

In silence, they both turned back to the photos. Mark kept on staring at one that he recognized. He recognized it because he was in it. He remembered fairly well the night, the night of Mark's twentieth birthday. Roger's arm was around his shoulders, almost in a headlock, while they both laughed. Mark's eyes were closed and his glasses were lopsided. A lipstick stain was on his cheek (he remembered later that that lipstick stain was, in fact, from Roger), and Roger's hair was freshly cut. For a moment, he felt like he was about to cry, standing and staring at the photo. The both of them, captured in time on that one night. "When he sent me that photo," Abigail began, "I felt happier than I had in a while. He'd written on the back- 'Me and my roommate,' and he'd sketched out a little heart. His sister had, when the photo came, she'd just gotten out of prison-"

"Gee," Mark just about jumped out of his skin at the voice behind him, twirling around with his hands raised, "Way to throw me under the bus Ma." This woman had the same curly hair as Abigail, and the same smooth jawline as Roger. Must be his sister, he thought. However, any questions or introductions he was beginning were cut off with a wave of Roger's sisters hand. "It's Isabelle, before you ask." And with that, she walked away, moving to the kitchen in a walk that was all-too-familiar to him. Abigail clicked her tongue and shook her head in the way only disapproving mothers do.

There was a beat of awkward silence.

"Mark, do you want to see his old room?" Shocked back into reality, Mark nodded, glancing toward the staircase. She smiled at him, gesturing for him to follow, and started up the stairs. Mark just scampered after, three steps behind. "Isabelle is- she's grieving in her own way. She's not good with grief, something her and her brother have- had in common," Abigail laughed as she walked towards a room, turning the knob with a _click._

Even though it was his childhood room, the room was still just so _Roger._ From the crates upon crates of records next to a record player, to the faded posters on the walls. It was clear which side of the room had been his- it was covered with posters from various musicians. Buddy Holly- _"God, if I tell you about my sexual awakening, you have to promise not to laugh," they were twenty-one and drunk off their asses, Roger's hand on the small of his back, Mark's hand in his hair, "Buddy Holly, okay? See! I knew you'd laugh at me!"_ -Queen, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, every musician Roger had ever liked, probably. It was like stepping into his brain. Just probably a lot less, well, sad.

And then, Mark collapsed. He didn't know why Roger's room was his breaking point- it just _was._ Roger was gone, Roger was dead- shot through the head in an alleyway with crushed glass around him, showing signs of sexual _fucking_ assault. "Don't pity me," the voice wasn't there. Mark knew he was just imagining it, but he listened anyway. "Don't pity me, Mark, you shithead. Don't pity me."

So Mark listened. Letting out a dry laugh, he turned and scooted over to sit with his back to the wall, next to the record player. "Can I-" his voice was throaty and scratchy, "Miss Davis, can I listen-?" He didn't see or hear her answer, but when he looked back up, she was gone, and the door was closed. So he popped open the latch on record player, plucked out the first record he found- _Queen_ -put it on the turntable, put the needle on the record, and turned it on. 

If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe that Roger was there with him.

And in his mind, he could see it. He could see Roger's stupid grin as he pinched him, laughing about how _thats gonna leave a- a m-_ and laughing so hard he couldn't finish his dumb joke. He could see Roger with his fingertips barely brushing against his leg. And his voice- breathy and raspy. With a growl ready to jump out at any time. And if he tried, if he closed his eyes real tight and let himself imagine, he could almost hear the ghost of that voice whispering- _"I love you too, Mark."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me @ mlmneilperry on tumblr


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